Leaves of Autumn
by Scarletquillraven
Summary: SEQUEL to "Petals of a Grey Rose". Erik has grown used to family life; all is going perfectly well until an old enemy makes an appearence. Soon enough, people Erik thought he had left behind are becoming the family's strongest allies. Must read PoGR first
1. Prologue

**NOTE: You ****will not**** understand what is going on in this story if you have not read my other fic, **_**Petals of a Grey Rose**_**. Seriously. None of this will make any sense to you. So I suggest you either read that first, or find something else to read. Or struggle through this, confused. Whatever you like.**

**Well, here I am again, folks. This is the long-awaited sequel (I feel so pro saying that . . .) to ****Petals****! I don't know about you, but I sure am excited. I was originally going to post this a couple months ago, but tragically my computer died (sob) and thus all my files were destroyed. So this may be less-than-satisfactory since I had to try to remember it all. I know not much happens in this chapter, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. And of course, review, :P**

**Well, I don't want to say too much. So without further ado or explanation:**

**Chapter 1: A Beginning**

"Here you go, sir." Erik passed the bottle of medication to the young man. "This is strong; it'll clear a cough up in a few days."

"Thank you." The man handed him the money and left. Sighing, Erik put the money away in the counter and sat down heavily on the chair behind it. Business had been busy all that morning, but by afternoon it had slowed considerably. Now he was waiting for 18h so he could close the shop for dinner.

But it wasn't his work in the apothecary that really wore him out. It was Madeline's condition that concerned him. _She's getting __ridiculously__ pregnant!_ Erik decided. It was true, to some extent; she was due in any day now, and she was huge. Even Erik, who had seen few pregnant women in his life, knew her size wasn't normal. The doctors had all told them she was just fine, assuring him that she was just carrying at a different height than most women did. Maddi herself tried to assure him she was alright, but he couldn't ignore the state she was in. She couldn't stand up for too long, and she had horrible back pain. She kept telling him it wasn't worth panicking about, that she and the baby were going to be just fine. He wished he could believe her, but for some reason he couldn't stop himself fretting.

He pulled out his pocket watch. There was still half an hour before closing time. _Maybe I can get away with sneaking up a little early . . ._

"Erik?" the voice behind him was cautious and shaky. He jerked around. Madeline was standing at the bottom of the staircase, leaning against the railing.

"What's wrong?" he was surprised at how frantic his own voice sounded. He got up and laid his hands on his shoulders. He noticed how heavily she was breathing.

"Erik, I . . ." she looked up at him, her face flushed ". . . I think I'm in labor."

Erik had been in so many distressing situations in his life, he'd learned when it was important to be calm and when it didn't matter. He'd run over their plan for the day Madeline gave birth in his head more times than anyone could count, and he'd always reminded himself that he would need to be confident and composed, for his wife's sake. It had almost been a kind of mantra: _stay collected for Madeline_.

"Do you fear any pressure?" he decided to ask. It was a decent question, he reasoned. He kept his voice controlled.

"Of course I'm feeling pressure, Erik!" She shrieked "I'm having a bloody baby!"

With that, Erik flew into an absolute panic.

Without thinking, he scooped her up in his arms and ran out the door into the street.

"Slow down!" Madeline was tugging on his collar "For god's sake, man, I'm not dying!"

People in the street stopped to stare at them. Erik plowed right through the crowd, nearly knocking over an elderly couple, and practically threw himself through the door into Henri Boufard's shop. The cheerful little bell rang when the door closed behind them. Erik stood in the middle of the room with his very ruffled wife in his arms. Henri came out of the back room, wiping his hands.

"Good afterno-Madeline!?" he dropped the handkerchief "Erik, what-"

"The baby!" Erik squeaked "She's having a baby!"

"What?" Henri leaned himself against a wall, suddenly looked just as rosy as his daughter

"Here? Now?!"

"Yes, now!"

"Shut up, Erik!" Madeline rapped his cheek with her knuckles. "Honestly! And put me down, will you?" Dumbly, not sure what else to do, Erik set her on her feet. "You'd think I'm dying the way you two're acting. Now, let's all go upstairs to sort this all out." She hobbled toward the stairs.

Mutely, the men followed.

---

"How far away does the midwife live, then?" Erik growled. He paced the floor in the Boufard's living room, fiddling with the little tin whistle he'd found in his pocket.

"Darling, why don't you just sit down?"

"But-"

"It would make me feel better."

Still running the little tube through his hands, Erik sat on the arm of the coach. Madeline was lying on her back on the coach proper, twiddling her thumbs over her huge abdomen. He looked down at her. She didn't look anxious at all, really. Perhaps her breathing was still a tad heavier than he'd like, but she had to show she was feeling something, at least.

"You're calm."

"Of course." She didn't look up from her hands "I need to be, to make up for the state you're in." she smiled.

"Henri's taking so long. It's wearing on my nerves."

"When's the baby gonna get here?" Genevieve asked loudly. She was kneeling on the floor with a pencil and some paper.

"At this rate, a few days from now."

"Shush, will you, Erik?" Madeline rolled her eyes. "A little while yet, Genny. What's that you're drawing there?"

"You." The little girl held up the paper. Erik took one look and nearly choked holding in his laugher. Madeline opened her mouth and made sounds like she was going to say something. "See," Genny pointed "You still have the baby in you. I made it as realistic as I could."

"You are quite the realist." Erik smirked. Then he realized that Madeline might not approve of his joking. He looked down at her, raising his eyebrows. She gave him one quick glance before bursting into laughter herself. Eventually tears started rolling towards her temples, though Erik couldn't see that from his place rolling on the floor. Genevieve ended up curled up in stitches, too. For some time, none of them could say a word.

---

"Here we are!" Henri threw open the door. "Everything is fine! I've brought the midwife! We're going to be just fine!"

Madeline opened her eyes. "Oh. You're back." She closed them again.

"You took a long time." Erik noted calmly from the armchair.

"Hello Papa!" Genevieve said from the kitchenette, where she was washing dishes.

"Oh, um . . .' Henri felt a little foolish "did anything happen while I was gone?"

"I walked around the house three times." Madeline sat up. "Erik made the bed."

"I'm washing the cups!"

"Uh, well then . . ." He stepped into the room. A middle-aged woman and a teenaged girl followed him in. "Erik, I don't know if you've met these two yet, but this is Madame Cosette," he pointed to the woman "And this is Felicienne Simonette."

"A pleasure." Erik stood up and nodded.

"You are M. Destler, then?" Mme. Cosette smiled pleasantly. "A pleasure indeed. And then there is your lovely wife." She beamed at Madeline. "How are you feeling?"

"Alright I suppose. It's not painful yet."

"How long's it been would you say?"

"An hour and a half, two hours." Holding the coach for balance, she heaved herself to her feet. "The bed's all ready."

"Wonderful. Felicienne, go set up, will you?" the girl scurried away down the hall. "That'll be ready in a few minutes then." She turned to Henri and gave him a list of things he should have ready, 'just in case'. Erik stood next to his wife and hugged her.

"Here we are, then." He kissed her temple.

"I suppose."

"Are you frightened?"

She snickered. "Not any more than you, at least." She sighed "Though looking at your face that doesn't mean very much."

"No." Erik nodded "I suppose it doesn't."

"Madame Destler," Mme. Cosette tapped her on the shoulder "I hate to interrupt, I really do, but I think it would be best if we got you settled as soon as possible."

"You're right." Erik watched her step away. She leaned it to kiss him quickly on the lips. "Don't worry too much, will you?" she grinned and followed the midwife down the hall.

Erik was just a step or two behind her when Henri grabbed his shoulder. "Erik!" his voice was suddenly very high-pitched "Where are you going?"

Erik looked at his horrified face and raised an eyebrow "Well, I was thinking it would be rather nice to go support my wife in her hour of desperate need."

"Are you insane?" The door down the hall echo as it closed.

"Interestingly, I was going to ask you precisely the same question."

"You thought you would be permitted to watch!?"

"Well, I was planning on being with her, yes." He pulled his arm out of Henri's grip.

"But . . . but that's not . . . that's not decent!"

"Decent?" Erik couldn't even believe they were having such an argument "She's my wife, it's not as if I've never seen her naked before!"

"_**Monsieur Destler**_!" Henri looked as if someone had just been brutally murdered in front of his very eyes "_My child is in the room!_"

Erik craned his neck to look over at Genevieve. She was bouncing up and down on the chair, rhythmically drying a plate and singing a little song. "I'm going to have a nephew! I'm going to have a niece!" He looked back at Henri's still-shocked face.

"She looks completely scandalized."

Henri sighed. "Honestly, Erik. Please. At least stay in here for a while. It's not our place in there." He leaned in close "that's women's business, you see."

"Oh for the love . . ." Erik threw up his hands "fine, fine." I'll stay in here. But if she screams-"

"Just sit, Erik."

---

For an hour, the grandfather clock in the corner was the only sound in the room. Henri had set about cleaning the guest room, more to give himself something to do rather than a precaution in case Erik had to stay the night like he claimed. Genevieve had been told to reorganize the cupboards, which she did without complaint. She had finally calmed downed enough to pick up on the tension that the men were practically oozing. It would be best to do what they asked, she had realized, and keep as far out of their way as possible.

The tine whistle had now been taken apart and polished countless times. Still, Erik felt too nervous when it came to actually playing the little thing. What if, if he did play, something did go wrong down the hall, and he couldn't hear it because he was playing some foolish jig to pass the time? So with that logic in mind, the whistle stayed silent. So did the room down the hall.

Eventually Henri reemerged into the living room and flopped down into the armchair. "There, that's done." He brushed some hair out of his face and glanced out the window. "It's getting dark out there."

"It's the middle of November." Erik said, pocketing the silver instrument.

"What is the date, exactly, anyways?" Henri picked up some logs from the hearth and placed them in the fireplace.

"November twelfth, Eighteen-seventy-one."

"Heh." The older man struck a match and lit the paper that covered the wood. "The little one won't be the first in the family with a November birthday. Mine's on the twentieth, Maddi's is the thirtieth. Opale's was the fifteenth." He smiled, even though it was a little crooked.

"Mine's in October, though." Genevieve said from the table.

"Yes, yes it is. I'll have to get used to you being ten now." Her father closed the screen and sat down again. "It looks like you're almost done there."

"Uh-huh." The girl's bun bobbed up and down as she nodded. "Most of the stuff was in order already."

"Well, then. I'd like to talk with Erik alone, if you don't mind going to your room for a bit." Henri sounded apologetic.

"Alright." Genevieve hopped away. If anything, she seemed happy with being excused from the room. Erik watched her skip out of the room.

"Erik," Henri sighed the name like it was a grim diagnosis "Erik, why did you bring her here?"

Erik swung his head slowly to look at the soon-to-be-grandfather. Henri was slouching in his seat, suddenly looking like he was in his sixties rather than his forties. "It was an automatic reaction. I wasn't thinking at the time." His voice became more severe "She'll not be moving now, I won't let her."

"I know, I know. It's just . . . it's a bad place. A cursed bed. You know that."

Erik blinked. "I'm afraid I don't."

"You know what happened . . ." Henri leaned forward and dropped his face into his hands. His voice was muffled through his fingers ". . . what happened the last time a woman gave birth in that room. In that very same bed."

"I hadn't a clue you were so superstitious. Personally I thought you above such idiocy as curses."

"It's not superstition." Henri huffed, raising his head. "It's only that the idea, what's happening, it makes me remember. Makes me think about last time. It is . . . it gives me an unsettling feeling, I mean to say."

Erik let out a long breath through his teeth. "Madeline is strong."

"So was Opale."

"I'm sure she was. You've told me many times. But I am confident in Maddi. I trust her. If something is going wrong, she will not hesitate to get more help."

"It's true." Henri admitted. He twirled the wedding ring that was still on his finger. "I'm proud of her. You're right to say she's strong. Incredibly strong. What with what happened, between the kidnap-"

"-And the rape." Erik finished the sentence for him.

"Yes, that."

"At the opera house, sometimes the stage hands went after the ballet rats when they were drunk." Erik felt a little odd; his old life did not come up in conversation much anymore. "Every so often, one of the girls would be assaulted. I tried to rescue them, when I could."

"That's very noble of you."

"Of course, some always slip through my fingers." He brushed some dust off the side table with the back of his hand. "It destroyed some of them. Ruined their lives. In the more extreme cases they had to leave the opera, many of them. Couldn't trust people again, afraid to be touched, to talk to people. Afraid of the dark."

"Madeline was never like that."

"True. She never was." He looked up into Henri's eyes. "It worries me."

"Why do you say that?"

"She refuses to talk about it. She just clamps her mouth shut if anything related to it comes up."

"It must bother her something awful."

"It haunts her." Erik nodded. "I am not surprised she is not inclined to discuss it. But I think it would be good for her to talk with me. Sometimes, in the middle of the day when I need to fetch something upstairs and she doesn't know I'm there, I pass by our room and I see her. She cries and believes I don't know."

"That is troubling." Henri drummed his fingers nervously on the arm of the chair.

"I know it would not be a problem if she would at least speak to me about it. In fact," he shifted uncomfortably "it is affecting our lives in other ways."

"For example?" Henri looked very worried.

"I'm still a virgin, for one." Henri looked like he was about to jump out of his skin. Erik raised a hand to keep him from exploding. "Let me explain. It bothers me because," he said it slowly so he would have time to choose his words "I would like to have children . . . of my own, if you will."

"I understand that." Henri said, his face returning to a more natural cover. "I have been meaning to ask you, in fact, if it is not too bold for me to do so – how do you feel about all this? I can only imagine – your wife having another man's baby!"

Erik stretched his legs in front of him. He'd discussed this with Madeline a few times. "I promised I would raise them as my own. I will. For most of my life I was not expecting to have children at all, so I am not at all averse to having children in the house. It is only that it's not _my _child. I will welcome them all the same, but some time it the future I think it would be rather nice to have a child that I _knew_ I had fathered."

"I suppose I can understand that feeling." Henri leaned back and steeped his fingers.

---

Genevieve was in the middle of choosing her outfit for the next day when a thought crossed her mind that made her stop dead in her tracks. She chewed on her lip: _should I go ask?_ Eventually the curiosity became too intense and she had to run out into the living room.

The men were still sitting in the same places they had been before. They had been speaking to each other in low voices, but Erik turned when he heard her walk into the room. She stopped quickly and poked at the floor with her toe. She suddenly felt very embarrassed.

"Is there something the matter, Genny?" her father asked.

"No," she said shyly "I was just wondering something."

"Go ahead and ask, then." Erik urged "You're not interrupting."

"Um, I just realized, and I started to wonder . . ." she looked up at Henri "if the baby is inside of Maddi, how does it get out?"

Once again, the clock's ticking dominated the room.

"No one told you?" Erik gave Henri a harsh glance.

"Of course not!" Henri nearly shouted when he found his voice.

"Very well then." Erik moved to lean against the back of the coach. "You know how the child is conceived?"

"Yeah."

"Erik!" Henri turned red yet again. Erik ignored him.

"Well, you know the place where the ovum and sperm-"

"_Erik_!"

"-join. Since that's where the baby grows, it –"

"_Erik!_"

"-exits by way of where the man entered-"

"_**Erik Destler!**_" Henri roared as he jumped up. "Will you kindly stop corrupting my child?!"

For the third time, the ticking was the only sound. Erik gave Henri an uninterested look.

"M. Boufard," he asked casually "are you certain you are French?"

Henri looked taken aback. "Well, yes. But I don't see what that has to do with any-"

"Because you are starting to sound uncannily like a stuck-up Englishmen."

Genevieve instantly collapsed in laughter. Henri turned so pale, Erik almost started to worry for his health. The older man slid back into the chair, and did not say anything for some time.

---

It was 2h30 when Erik jerked up in bed. He'd eventually settled in the guest room, deciding that rest would probably be good for him. He had taken a few hours to fall asleep, apparently only to be woken up again. His tiredness didn't even cross his mind, though: he'd been woken up by a scream.

He was out of bed and in the hallway within the time it took to blink. The apartment was pitch black, but he knew it was Henri who ran out and stood by him a second later.

"Did you hear it too?" Henri asked.

"Yes." Erik said. He saw the sliver of light a few feet away. It was spilling out from under a door: the door to the room where Madeline was.

Before Henri could saw anything more, Erik had pushed the door open and flown inside.

Another scream ripped through the air and slapped Erik's ears. He ignored it as best he could and let his eyes settle on Madeline. The midwife and her apprentice were crowded around the bottom of the bed. Madeline had her eyes squeezed shut as she let out another sob of pain. He didn't wait another second to sprung forward and cup her face.

She squinted up at his face. It briefly crossed Erik's mind that he wasn't wearing his mask. "Erik?" She was hoarse, and he felt it himself "What are you – aaah!"

"There we are, Madame!" the midwife trumpeted triumphantly "Number two's out!"

"Number two?" something in Erik's gut twisted. He looked down at the other end of the bed. The assistant was holding one screeching baby; Mme Cosette was wiping of another.

"_Tabernac_ . . ." he breathed. Oddly, it sounded more like a prayer than a curse, like it normally did. Mme. Cosette Wrapped the babies both and, smiling, handed them over.

"A boy and a girl." She declared. "You did wonderfully, Mme. Destler."

Shaking, Erik took one of the bundles. The other was laid in Madeline's arms. Then the woman retreated back to the end of the bed.

"Look at her." Madeline panted. "Lord, she's beautiful." She grinned weakly.

Erik had to agree. The baby was tiny and pink, like most babies. But she already had tight blond curls on her head. Madeline ran her hand other them tenderly. "Look at that." The baby squinted up at them; her eyes were the palest blue he'd ever seen.

Oddly, he suddenly stopped worrying about being a father. All his anger for not fathering them himself, his fear of telling them the truth one day, everything, disappeared. Erik felt a strange, profound contentment. _I could get used to this._

He turned to look at the boy. He had the little wisps of hair already, too, though his were dark and sparse. He was even smaller than his sister, though not by much. He'd stopped crying as well, and had also decided to tentatively open his eyes. Erik froze.

The baby had the darkest brown eyes he'd ever seen. They were not from the Boufards, he knew that for sure. And he had a feeling they weren't his.

But, glancing at Madeline, he realized he really and truly didn't care.


	2. Five Years Later

**Hey ho all! So sorry about the delay . . . the reason is a combination of writer's block, excessive school work, and (I admit) laziness on my part. **

**But now it's up! So I will say no more and let you go forth and read.**

**Chapter 2**

Erik flipped the cash register closed and waved the costumer on his way. It was a quiet day, with just a few costumers and a friend or two just dropping in to say hello. Madeline was upstairs doing the usual – drawing, and maybe baking a cake. Erik glanced at the clock on the wall and wondered if he could get away with closing up two hours earlier. He was in the middle of mulling over this when the bell over the door rang. It was accompanied by a very familiar voice, speaking very fast.

"Papa! I'm home! Guess what happened today? Well a bunch of stuff happened, actually, but this one really good thing happened and – Papa, can you hear me? I gotta tell you something!"

"I can hear you, just fine, Cléa." He laughed and turned to look at her. "Now what was it you were telling me?"

Cléa was bouncing up and down in the middle of the store, blonde curls jumping with her. Her face was pink – she'd probably run all the way home from school, bursting with the need to tell her father the enthralling story of her day. Erik took one look at her gigantic grin and sparkling eyes and wondered just how it was that a five-year-old had such a theatrical outlook on life.

"Oh my goodness, Papa, it was just _wonderful_!" she even had sweeping hand gestures to go with every second world. "We were all in music class, see, and Sister Hyacinthe – you know, that nice old one – she had us sing a beautiful piece, it was by . . ." he face fell momentarily, but she caught herself and it sprung back into excitement "someone famous. It wasn't from any opera I know, anyway. Anyway, she had _me_ sing the solo! And she said at the end that I have a 'golden voice'! She's just too nice, you see."

"Golden voice, eh?" Erik chuckled and walked over the ruffle her hair. Her bun had come undone again, he noted affectionately. "I've got no doubt about that." Glancing at the clock again, he suggested "Why don't you go see your mother upstairs? She's probably going to make supper soon, and she'll like your help."

"Alright." Cléa hopped excitedly through the door and up the stairs.

"And have her fix your hair, too." He called after her. There was no reply. Erik shook his head and settled back into his seat behind the counter.

Antoine arrived not long after, if not quite as dramatically. He walked in with his head down, letting the door slam behind him. Erik watching him drag his feet toward the other end of the room; the little boy never looked up once, and didn't say a word.

"Antoine?"

Antoine snapped his head up with a start and looked around franticly, finally laying eyes on Erik. "Yes, Papa?" he asked timidly.

"How was your day?"

"It was fine, Papa." Antoine tried a smile. It wasn't very convincing. Antoine looked away when Erik grimaced. Erik could make a good guess that today had not been 'fine' at all. The boy kept his head bowed and worried his lip between his teeth. Erik sighed and held out a hand.

"Here, give me your satchel. Why don't you help me down here for a little while?"

Antoine snapped his head up. His face was practically glowing now. "Alright!" He let the strap of his satchel drop off his shoulder and pressed it into his father's palm. As Erik hung it up, Antoine skipped over to stand next to him behind the desk. "What should I do?"

"Here." Erik bent and held out a tray covered in little cloth pouches. Antoine took it reverently. "Careful, don't drop it. Now, put these in the right drawers for me. You've done this job before, haven't you?"

"Yes, I have. Lots of times." The boy had already run across the room to the wall of drawers by the time he'd gotten the words out.

Erik sat back and watched him. Antoine was always eager to help out in the shop, so Erik always had him do it when he had bad days. And lately, he'd been having a lot. The boy never discussed them, but Erik could easily guess what was going on. Erik wasn't quite sure how to deal with the problem, having no experience like that himself. Madeline had no idea what to do either, so they both decided that they would let Antoine tell them when he was ready. Neither of them thought that was the best way of going about things, but what else could they do? So they cheered him up when it was needed, and waited.

Finally, the time came to close up the apothecary for the night and go to dinner. Antoine seemed much happier than he had been earlier, giving Cléa and his mother enthusiastic hugs.

"What's for dinner, Maman?" he asked, firmly holding a handful of her skirt.

"Roast chicken." She grinned. "And guess what's for dessert?"

Antoine's mouth fell open. "Really?"

"I helped her make it!" Cléa announced from the table, where she was setting the places. "I stirred. _And_ I got to lick the spoon!"

They all quickly settled down to eat. Cléa immediately started to retell the events of her day in her usual melodramatic fashion. Some nights Cléa could banter on for hours on end, but that night she ran out of stories after a few minutes. Then she seemed very happy to tuck into her food, probably satisfied with how she had helped with the meal that afternoon.

"I had a good day myself." Madeline said once Cléa had started to munch. "Ozanne dropped by, and we went on a nice long walk. We stopped in the park and I sketched for an hour or so."

"You should show us your pictures." Vegetable bits fell out of Cléa's mouth as she spoke.

"Mouth closed when you chew, Cléa. What about you, Antoine?" Madeline turned her attention to her son. "Anything interesting happen at school?"

"No." Antoine dropped his head and poked at his chicken with his spoon.

Madeline raised an eyebrow. "Nothing today? Nothing at all?"

"No." Antoine seemed to be enthralled with his food. He scooped some into his mouth and stared intently at the remnants on his plate. He flicked his eyes up once to look at his sister, who didn't seem to notice anything had changed. He swallowed and looked back to the chicken. "Nothing." He added quietly.

Madeline and Erik exchanged a look.

Finally it was time to bring out the nut cake. Cléa sat up proudly on her chair when it was laid on the table. "See those little rose things on top? I made those!"

"They look really good, Cléa." Antoine reached over to pat her on the shoulder.

"Maman showed me how."

"They do look very dainty, _cherie._" Erik carefully started to slice the cake "Now let's see how they taste."

The rest of the evening went by rather uneventfully, with the family doing its usual chores, and the children playing like they always did. Finally the time came that they were tucked into bed, and Erik and Madeline retired to their own room for the night.

"Nut cake, hmm?" Erik said as he pulled on his nightshirt. "What's the occasion?"

"Nothing, really." Madeline replied, brushing the final knots out of her hair. "I just thought it would be a nice treat. I didn't have anything else to do this evening, so I thought I might as well." She set her brush down and slipped under the sheets. "You know, I was just in the mood to bake something."

"It was very delicious." Erik slipped into bed with her and turned the lamp down low. "I'm not complaining; I was just curious. You don't make them very often."

"You know," Madeline shrugged under the covers "I just thought I'd doing something special, since I am three months pregnant."

There was a silence.

"You know," she continued calmly "since the last time I announced that it wasn't the best –"

She was abruptly cut off when Erik rolled over and pressed his lips against hers as hard as he could. He didn't let go for some time, and when he did she could see him grinning even in the darkness.

"Bloody hell, Erik!" she hissed. "You scared me."

"I just can't believe this!" he could barely get the words out, he felt so giddy. "Good god, a baby! My baby!" his face fell for a moment "It . . . it is –"

"Of course it's yours, Erik!" Madeline laughed "Who else?"

"I don't know, I just . . ." he sighed "Can I kiss you again?"

"Be my guest."

So he did.

**Ok, I promise the plot will pick up in the next couple of chapters. I hope you enjoyed this one, anyway.**


	3. The Cracks Open

**Chapter 3: The Crakes Open**

The next day, Erik and Madeline told the news to the twins at dinnertime. The response was one of absolute thrill.

"A little brother!" Cléa dropped her fork in excitement. It clattered across her plate loudly. "Oh my goodness! You hear that, Antoine!"

"Yes." The little boy grinned and nodded enthusiastically. "Yes!"

Erik was pleased to see Antoine genuinely happy. "It might be a girl, too, don't forget."

"I think it'd be better if it was a boy." Cléa said.

"Why's that, Cléa?" Madeline asked, smiling ear to ear. She scooped some potato into her mouth as Cléa answered.

"Because, I think it'd be fun to have another brother. You know, to order around and things like that."

Madeline nearly choked on the potato. Erik patted her back lightly as she coughed, laughing himself all the while. Cléa gave them a serious look. Antoine giggled sheepishly.

"Oh, Mary and Joseph." Madeline said once she could breathe again. "This is going to be a very interesting time."

---

Erik slapped himself when he looked back on how things had been. _Didn't I __see__? _He felt like shouting. _It was too perfect! I of all people should've known!_ _Why did I ever let my guard down like that?_

---

It started on a Monday afternoon, the week after the children learned about their mother's pregnancy. It was an overcast day, and humid enough to have everyone expecting rain, and thus reluctant to go out (in the end, the rain didn't make its appearance until well after midnight). Madeline had a friend over for tea and a chat; Erik could hear their un-ladylike laughter from the shop. Business had been exceptionally quiet that day, so he was taking the opportunity to fiddle with a broken snare drum he'd been meaning to get around to for months.

These were Erik's favourite days, in fact. Living in the labyrinth under the opera for so long he'd gotten used to damp air, and sometimes he even missed it. The humidity made him feel oddly safe. And tinkering with an instrument because he had an hour or two to spare made things even better. And everything else was fine, too: Madeline was enjoying herself upstairs, and the children were probably finishing up the school day at that very moment. He found himself with an urge to sing The Marriage of Figaro. It didn't take long for him to cave to it.

He lost track of time. He didn't even realize that Cléa was late until he heard the bell over the door jingle. He quickly slipped the drum and him tools under the desk and straightened to look at the costumer.

"Good afternoon, sir."

"Good afternoon." The costumer nodded back.

Erik took a good look at the man – well, boy, really. He didn't look like he was a day past fifteen. He certainly wasn't a Frenchman, either – he looked to be Romany, and by the accent he had, Erik guessed he'd been raised one, too. This only made immediately raised a flag in Erik's mind: he'd lived with a band of gypsies once, long ago. He never met most of the band, but the one he had had not given him the fondest of memories.

The boy was dressed in the normal clothes for a Parisian his age, though, and looked clean and calm as any other costumer Erik would expect. He realized he was being very judgmental, and told himself to calm down.

"Is there anything I can help you with?" he offered.

"No, thank you." The boy said, looking at a shelf of ointments for rashes. He shifted the sack he was carrying over his shoulder to a more comfortable position.

"I can take that sack for you for a few minutes while you look." Erik said. "It looks heavy."

"All right." The boy laid the sack down on the desk gently. Erik noticed that the young man hadn't actually looked at him yet. He guessed he was shy, or intimidated by the mask.

"Is there any cure in particular you're looking for?"

"That's very kind of you, Monsieur le Fantôme, but I just came to give you this." He gently pushed the sack an inch closer to Erik. In a second, he was already out the door.

Erik blinked. _Did he just say what I think he said?_ Unease creeping back into his mind, Erik opened the sack.

A head of blonde curls came out first. Then a pale little face, a blood-spattered school uniform, and then a little pair of black buckled shoes.

He stared.

He couldn't move.

Her eyes were closed.

The door jingled. "Papa, I'm home!"

He heard the voice, a little boy's, and it took him a moment to recognize it.

"Papa, I had the best day ever! You're not going to believe . . . believe . . . is that Cléa? Papa? What's . . . what's going on?"

Finally Erik realized what was happening.

"Antoine, go get Dr Jardin, fast."

Antoine didn't move. "Papa . . ."

"I said go, Antoine! Now! Go!"

The bell jingled cheerfully behind him.


	4. Wondering

**Hi again! Oh man, I finally have time to write this. See, I've been busy with school, work, German lessons, **_**Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess**_**, and a broken toe, so . . . ok honestly I have no excuse. I've just been writing mounds and mounds of original stuff lately and one hundred percent forgot about fanfiction. And that's horrible.**

**Oh, and are there any ambient fans in the house (what a horrible unintentional joke)? Because if so, do I have a recommendation for you: the album **_**47:34**_** by a man who goes by Skyrider is FANTASTIC and if you can scrounge up a copy for yourself (which may be difficult, since it's ridiculously obscure) you should definitely give it a look. It's creepy as all heck, it's got great atmosphere, and it samples **_**Phantom **_**at one point! What more could you want in an album?**

**The answer, of course, is nothing.**

**Chapter 4**

Within a minute, Antoine was halfway down the road. A moment later he was running back, doctor in stumbling tow. He didn't even have a chance to ask what was going on before his father and the doctor disappeared upstairs, Cléa nestled somewhere deep in their arms.

For a while, the little boy was frozen. He could hear loud talking upstairs, but he couldn't make out a word of whatever was being said. He heard stomping, dishes clattering to the floor, and everything else after that was too quiet to hear through the floor.

He found himself shaking. What was going on? Why had Cléa been so pale? Had that been blood on her? Why was Papa so scared? He didn't understand at all, and it only made him more frightened. His legs felt weak, so he sank to the floor in the middle of the shop, pulling his knees up to his chin.

_But I had a good day today._ He thought. His lip started quivering. _How come bad things always happen when I'm happy? It's not fair._

A few minutes later, while he was still trying to hold back tears, a costumer came in. it was a regular – a certain Madame Levoux, who suffered from both arthritis in her fingers and a chronic need to worry about everything and everybody. As soon as she caught sight of Antoine, she flew into an episode.

"Oh, sweetheart, are you alright?" she ran over to crouch next to him.

"I'm . . . I'm . . ." Antoine pressed his face into his knees so she wouldn't see him crying.

"Do you feel sick, honey?" she had seen the way he was shaking and took it for shivering.

Antoine saw his chance and nodded. "A little . . ."

"Oh, we'd better get your mother, then." She started to lightly rub his back as she looked around the store. "Were you running this place all by yourself?"

"Papa's upstairs." He whimpered. "Something . . . happened, an' he ran-"

"Here, you stay here." The woman stood up and patted him on the head. "I'll slip up there and get your mother. It'll just be a moment or two, alright?" Antoine nodded. He heard her run up the stairs and knock on the door to the flat. He heard the door open, then the soft murmur voices, then two people running back down again.

"Oh, Antoine." He looked up to see Mama standing over him. She looked harried, and was maybe a little rough when she helped him to his feet. "Come on, you should come up with me." They started to go, but she stopped. "Madame Levoux, I'm sorry – you're here to pick up that new formula, aren't you? Watch him for a minute, please, and I'll get it from the back." She rushed away and came back with the medication.

"Here, you should keep the change." Madame Levoux pressed the bills into Mama's hands. "I can tell you're in a spot of trouble. Do you need me to stay?"

"That's very kind," Mama said sternly "But it may be best if we have a little space until this passes."

"Oh, of course. I understand. Well, whatever it is, I do hope it sorts itself."

"Maybe. Come one, Antoine." She picked him up and started towards the flat. Antoine kept an eye on Madame Levoux as they went. He thought she looked a little sad.

Upstairs, Mama sat him in the big chair in the living room and told him to stay put while she went to check on something. She disappeared in the direction of his and Clèa's room. Antoine realized that was probably where the doctor and Papa had gone with his sister. He could just hear more muffled talking, and it made him anxious again. He wanted to know what was going on!

Mama came back, looking just as severe as she had before. "Alright, Antoine – do you still feel sick?"

"Not really . . ." the nervousness was making his stomach turn, but he didn't want to cause any trouble.

"You look pale. Here, lie on the divan for a while." She got a blanket to cover him. "Now, we're in a bit of a crisis, so it's best if you just stay here, alright? You might get underfoot. I know you're curious, but I need to go help. I'll explain later."

Antoine waited. He lay still for a little while, but when his stomach refused to settle, he got up and found his school books. He spent some time practicing writing the alphabet.

When that got boring, he looked through the rest of the things in his satchel. He was always very good at keeping his things neat, so there wasn't much in it. Then, a little squished under his arithmetic book, he found a handful of mint candies.

Antoine had forgotten all about them– they were part of the reason he'd had such a good day. On his way home from school, he'd felt like he was floating. He saw Guillaume glaring at him from the corner of the schoolyard, but Jean-Luc came over and stood next to him. They talked all about all kinds of things, and Antoine felt happy for having found a new friend – and a big kid, no less! When they reached the street where they had to part, Jena-Luc turned to him.

"You know the rest of the way by yourself?" Antoine nodded. "Alright. Want to meet here tomorrow? Walking together is fun!" Antoine agreed with him. He wanted to hang out with Jean-Luc some more. He was about to ask him if he wanted to visit his house on Sunday to meet the other kids on his street, but Jean-Luc spoke first.

"Here," he pulled something out of his pocket and held them out for Antoine to take "I've had these me my bag for a long time, I keep forgetting about them. You want 'em?"

"Really?"

"Of course! I don't like mint a whole lot, anyway." Antoine took them. He knew he was blushing – he'd only met this boy today, and he was being so nice! "Well, I gotta go. See you tomorrow!"

It'd been odd, but it had been a good odd, and it had made Antoine feel happy. He'd played with some of his friends on his street for a while, too, and it had been lots of fun. And now something was wrong with Clèa – _and he had no idea what._

He could hear the voices in the other room still. He could pick out which was Papa's – it was like a deep, droning blanket underneath everything else. Mama's sounded like a flute, Antoine thought, and she wasn't talking nearly as much as Papa. The doctor's voice was somewhere in the middle. He had no idea what anyone was saying exactly, but while he listened he realized that no one was yelling, so he assumed that things were going fine.

He told himself over and over that everything was fine, but it only worked for a few minutes. Finally, he got up the courage to knock on the bedroom door. He didn't want to, but he was beginning to feel so stressed he couldn't stop himself.

He had to knock five times before anyone answered. Mama almost hit him with the door when she opened it.

"What? Antoine – are you alright? Did I get you with the door? You were standing right in front of it!"

"No, Mama, I . . ." he felt his throat constricting. He realized he hadn't planned what he was going to say. "I just . . ." the constriction was replaced by a lump ". . . is everything . . . what's going on?"

She sighed. "I suppose no one's told you, have they. I'm sorry, one moment." She disappeared back into the room. When she came back out, she shut the door soundly behind her and took Antoine to the kitchen. "Here, I should fix us some dinner."

Antoine settled into one of the chairs at the table while his mother started pulling out pots and ingredients. He felt a little better now that someone was staying with him, and that she was going to tell him some of what was going on.

"Antoine," she said as she chopped carrots "things may be a little insane for the next few days." She had the same matter-of-fact tone she always had, which made him feel even better. "Someone hurt Clèa today. Oh, don't look at me like that. Panicking won't help. Here, drink some milk." She poured Antoine a glass and pushed it in front of him. "Be calm. Clèa's hurt, but it looks like she will be just fine with a bit of time. Papa and the doctor are taking care of her, and they needed my help with it." She moved from carrots to the meat. "Clèa might act a bit different for a while, is the problem."

"Why, Mama?"

Mama sighed again. "Sometimes people do strange things when something really scary happens to them. No one really knows why, it just happens. Just . . . just try to be extra good, for all our sakes? Can you promise me that?"

"Yes, Mama." Antoine felt the lump again. "I'll try."

**ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.**

**I am beginning to think that Antoine and Jean-Luc may have a little gay boy crush on each other. If it reads like that, I'm sorry – that wasn't supposed to happen! Please ignore this unintentional and mildly unsettling implied shipping!**

**I finally updated, and **_**I didn't even tell you what's wrong with Clèa.**_** Is this a problem? **_**Here, drink some milk!**_

**Heh, I wonder how many times I will have to add "Clèa" into the dictionary of Microsoft Word before it stops asking me if I meant to type "clam".**


	5. Echo of a Shot

**Did you think this was an abandoned fic?**

**My friend, you thought WRONG!**

**Hohoho, it is good to be back! I could give you any number of excuses as to why I have allowed such a ridiculous gap of time since my last update, but they're all boring and stupid anyway, blah blah blah. I apologize for these my most grievous misdoings; here, have a short chapter that hopefully does not suck big time. And internet champagne to celebrate! Huzzah!**

**Chapter 5: The Echoes of a Shot**

That evening, after a few hours of playing alone in the living room, Antoine was allowed to see his sister. "Come on, son." Papa had appeared in the doorway by the couch. "You want to talk to Clèa? She's awake."

In the bedroom, the curtains had been drawn and the only light was from one candle on the bedside table. In the gloom, Antoine could make out the shape of his sister lying on the bed, but he couldn't see her face. He shuffled forward and reached for his father's hand beside him. Papa let out a little sigh and crouched down.

"Go on, Antoine. Everything's alright now." He pushed on his son's back gently. Antoine stumbled forward, a little more exaggerated than was really necessary, and crept slowly up to the bed.

Up close, he could see Clèa properly. The blankets were all pulled up to her chin, which Antoine thought was a little odd since he didn't find it that cold in the room at all. Even in the low light, he could make out how white her face was still, and that scared him a bit. She looked like one of the ghosts in a scary story an older boy at school had told him once, that came back for revenge against the people who were mean to them when they were alive.

"Hmm . . . Antoine?"

He was still thinking about the ghosts when she said his name and opened her eyes. For a second he thought about running back to Papa – what if something had happened and now she _was _a ghost? He backed away just a little bit just in case and tried to think of something brave to do. In the end, he just smiled, since that seemed to him to be the exact opposite of what he wanted to do right that moment. It might fool her.

It didn't. Her voice came out creaky and small, but he could tell this really was the real Clèa from what she said. "You look like you're trying to poop!"

Antoine couldn't help but laugh at that, and she laughed along too. It was short and sounded like she had a sore throat, but she was smiling now along with him, genuinely.

"Um, Clèa?" He finally decided to ask, since she didn't seem mad or anything. "So, um, are you hurt or something? I thought I saw blood earlier, and you're all white now and everything."

Clèa stopped smiling and pressed her lips together into a thin line. She closed her eyes again like she was thinking. "Uh . . . I . . ." she opened her eyes again. "I hurt my arm. This one." She wiggled her left arm a little under the sheet.

"How?"

"I dunno. I don't remember real well."

"Did you fall?"

"I don't know!"

"Did someone do it to you? 'Cause at my school sometimes kids, like the mean kids, they push people and stuff. Did that happen to you? Is your school –?"

"I said I don't know!" she snapped right in the middle of his sentence. Her voice turned really hoarse halfway through the sentence, and she sounded sicker than ever. "I said that already."

He realized she was getting upset and felt awful. "Sorry, Clèa." She pressed her lips together and didn't say anything for a minute. Then she turned her head to one side and nuzzled her nose into the pillow. She said something, but with her mouth covered so much it just sounded like mumbling to Antoine.

"What?" He leaned in close. She repeated whatever she'd mumbled and closed her eyes once again. "What'd you say?"

"Antoine, come here." The little boy felt a warm hand on his shoulder. Papa was standing behind him, lightly pulling him back. "Clèa's tired. Let's let her rest some more. You should get ready to go to bed yourself, anyway." Papa leaned in once and kissed Clèa's cheek, then turned back to his son. "Come on, Antoine. You should go wash up, now."

Later, Antoine was staring that the ceiling in the dark. He was on the floor tonight on a makeshift bed; normally he and Clèa shared one big bed, but Papa and Mama were too worried he would kick or push Clèa in her sleep and hurt her more. Since she was the one under the weather, she got the real bed. Antoine didn't really mind – sleeping on the ground could be kind of fun anyway, since it was so different from what he usually did.

He could hear Clèa breathing nearby. She'd been asleep when he'd come back in to go to bed and he was pretty certain she hadn't woken up at all since then. He hoped when she woke up she wouldn't still be upset about him asking those questions. And he hoped she would feel better tomorrow, too. Seeing her act different and looking sick was weird, and he didn't like it much at all.

He remembered what one of the Brothers at school had said about how you should pray when things seem uncontrollable, so he did that. He hoped it worked like they always said it would.

Meanwhile, in the next room, Mama and Papa were both still awake themselves. They were in bed, curled up in each other.

"You reported it, then?"

"For the last time, _yes_, Erik! Of course I did. The doctor was with me too, so the police have all the evidence. Why wouldn't I report it?"

"I'm sorry. I'm just . . . concerned."

"You're not the only one." She sighed into his chest. "One of us should go check on her soon."

"I will."

"Alright."

There was a pause. She put a hand on his face, the place where the mask usually was. "Do you think it might have been . . ." she wondered how to word it without sounding like a fool. "Do you think he's behind it? I mean –"

"I know who you mean." His voice turned low and dangerous. Not danger for her, of course, but the suspect.

"And if it is him?"

"He's as good as dead."

"Erik!"

"Madeline, think for a moment."

"About what, then?

"I'm not standing for this. What he did to you, and now what he's done to Clèa . . . what he _could _do to either of you, or Antoine, or the child on the way! I will send him straight to hell myself, I swear to you. If he does one thing, a single damn thing; if I find out he is not in prison and he knows where we live, I will do whatever it takes, I don't care."

"Erik, if you dare tie another noose from now until the day you die, so help me Heavenly Father, I cannot even tell you what I would-"

"I'm the man of the house, Madeline! I'm what I never thought I'd been for my entire life! I have a wife, two children to take care of, we're expecting another . . . my whole life I've wanted this! You think I didn't take this role to heart? You are all _my _responsibility! _I'm _the father, the husband! I can't just let this all be destroyed by some bastard! Protecting you all is _my _job! And if in order to do that I have to –"

"Have to what? Wring a few necks? For goodness sake Erik, if you got caught you'd have your neck snapped yourself in less than a week! How's that for protecting us, hmm?"

Erik fell silent, breathing heavily. After a while he ran a hand through her hair. "I'm sorry." He whispered.

"Don't do anything stupid."

"I-"

"Please, Erik."

He let go of her and rolled to the side of the bed. He watched his silhouette slowly rise and shuffle forward. "I'm going to go check on Clèa."

"Alright."

Madeline watched him move through the room as a vague black shadow. The door let out one high squeak as he slipped through it.

"Nothing stupid." She told the air. "Or I swear . . ."

**Now ain't that just the bee's knees?**

**Ok so now that I have proved to you that I am going to keep this darn thing alive, I have to warn you that I can't guarantee another update anytime soon. Anywhere from a week to like six months, I'd say. That is so bad, oh man. But I have a lot on my plate at the moment as I am a big stinky adult now, and I live in a country where things run in the local language, which upon my arrival in August I barely spoke. I am better at it now, but I have to study all the time and all that kind of fun stuff, and also try to have a life as much as possible and other crazy things. Stay tuned though! I might surprise me. Who knows?**


End file.
